


Louis

by bravestyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 19:49:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: It's quiet for a few minutes before Louis laughs again, a bit louder this time. Loud enough to get the policemen to look up from his desk in interest. Louis waits for him to go back to his work before he whispers, "D'ya every just want to die?"And Harry doesn't know what to say, so he just laughs into Louis' smoke-cloaked jacket. At the time, it feels like the right thing to do because Louis laughs back.or,Louis is depressed and suicidal. Harry doesn't understand.





	Louis

**Author's Note:**

> READ: this fic is heavily inspired from Neil Hilborn's poem "Joey". It's a beautiful poem, and I think everyone should listen to it /read it. This fic would not exist without it. 
> 
> I don't know any members of One Direction & do not claim this has any truth to it. This is a work of fiction. Please don't sue me lol.

\- - - -

They're sixteen. It's two o'clock in the morning. They're in a jail cell with bribed booze numbing their veins. The police are in a good mood this early in morning, so they'll be released to their parents at noon. Harry's frantic when he talks to his mother on the phone, begging her not to be mad, that they were just having some fun and got caught up in it. After being reassured by Anne that so long as the both of them are okay, then she's not mad, he watches Louis take his phone call. He doesn't get an answer. He doesn't look surprised. 

"My mum's working the night shift tonight," he says with a shrug. Like they aren't in a grimy jail cell with a sleeping man who might be homeless snores loudly next to them. He laughs a little as he sits down next to Harry. Like always, it feels like there's a magnet stuck to both of them, and right now, they're both too tired to fight it. Harry sets his head on Louis' shoulder and Louis sets his head atop Harry's. It's quiet for a few minutes before Louis laughs again, a bit louder this time. Loud enough to get the policemen to look up from his desk in interest. Louis waits for him to go back to his work before he whispers, "D'ya every just want to die?"

And Harry doesn't know what to say, so he just laughs into Louis' smoke-cloaked jacket. At the time, it feels like the right thing to do because Louis laughs back. 

\- - - -

It's a week past Harry's eighteenth birthday, so Louis' got him beat by a couple of months in the age department already. Harry's mum tells him that he doesn't have to get a job until he's out of college, that she wants him to focus on school. Right now, he's waiting outside of Louis' work, a run-down coffee shop that's on the verge of closing. It's too cold even with his expensive jacket hugging his body. He watches Louis walk out of the shop with eyes draped in exhaustion and a t-shirt. 

"Hey, Lou," Harry whispers, too giddy to say it much louder. Tonight, they'll get to spend more than a few minutes together. Louis' worked all week, even had to skip a few of his classes if he didn't want to lose his job. Harry misses him, but all of that fades when Louis stands on his toes a bit to kiss him. Their hands find each other almost instantly. 

"It's Louis," Louis reminds, because ever since Louis' father has come back it's Louis, not Lou. Harry keeps forgetting. 

"Right."

They walk maybe too closely to Harry's car. Louis doesn't have a car. He refuses to let Anne by him one. It's exhausting; Louis nearly had to go to the hospital a few weeks ago because he walked to work in the snow, no coat and no socks, and he probably got himself pneumonia. They never found out, not for sure. Louis wouldn't go to the hospital, said something about hospital bills. 

"I got the money," Louis murmurs, glancing out the window. Harry's been driving for twenty minutes and neither of them have said a word yet.

"For what?"

"A refill on my meds." He laughs, strained and off-beat. "Fucking finally. I'll have my head back on straight for a few weeks again." He flashes Harry a sad smile. "Don't get too used to it, Styles."

Harry doesn't laugh. He's learned that Louis isn't joking. (God, he wishes that lesson wasn't so hard to learn.) "I told you I'd pay for them, Lou. You know I'd do that for you, so why don't you just let me--"

"It's Louis," is all he says. 

"Right."

\- - - - 

Harry's twenty-two when he starts seeing a therapist. He's always been terrible at coping with stress, but lately, it's been taking a toll on him. He has a job now, but he hasn't been too careful with his money, spent it all on buying things for the apartment so Louis doesn't do it first. His mother tells him it's no biggie, that she can cover it. She also says she won't allow him to pay her back. Harry's secretly grateful. 

When he tells Louis, Louis cackles, loud and bright. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No, Lou. I'm serious. What's so funny?"

(Louis' dad is gone again, so he doesn't get corrected on the nickname.)

"Do you know how expensive they are?" Louis sits up in bed, eyes wide. "Seriously, Haz. You've been working for less than a year. You don't have that kind of money."

And this is the part where Louis makes Harry feel small, weak. Without meaning to, of course. But Louis' better than him: better with money, better with skills, better with 'making it work'. "Mum's paying for it." 

"Oh." Louis lays back down. His laugh sounds a bit bitter. "That makes more sense."

"I want you to see someone, too." He reaches out to brush his fingers across Louis' forearm. "I already asked, Mum said she'll--"

"Don't, H."

So Harry doesn't. 

\- - - -

When his depression gets really bad, Louis stays inside for days and writes. Doodles, sometimes, too. Whatever he can do, whatever he can create, he does it. Harry has found him knee-deep in a pile of crumpled lined paper once. The only time he moves is when he has to use the bathroom or go to work, and those are the days Harry begs him to stay home, begs him not to go to work. He's terrified he won't come back. 

Harry shouldn't have laughed that day in the jail cell. But he did. And since then, Louis has never brought up the topic of suicide again, but Harry knows that he still thinks about it. It practically vibrates off him and it's scary. Harry used to keep a gun in the apartment, locked away in safe that Harry only knew the combination to. It was a moving gift from his father. He got rid of it the day he caught Louis staring at it. Louis doesn't know it's gone. Louis still stares.

\- - - -

They're out with friends celebrating Harry's twenty-fifth birthday. Louis' been quiet for the last month or so. It's another Quiet Month. Harry's used to those. He gets drunk, something he hasn't done around Louis since they were caught by that police guy when they were seventeen. Harry's always told himself that maybe if he had been a bit more soberer when Louis made that joke, then things would be a lot more different now. Now, it's a Quiet Month. And Harry's drunk. And Liam, a friend who's been around longer than Harry has in Louis' world, is worried. 

"He normally can at least fake a smile," Liam points out to Harry. He's right, he is. Harry's noticed it, too. That Louis has barely said a word to anyone all night. But it's Harry's night, and Harry's drunk, and he doesn't mean what he says next. (At least, that's what he tells his therapist.)

"Always so fucking dramatic, isn't he?" Harry groans, closes his eyes, rubs at his temple. "It's my first birthday since we've got engaged and he's spending it moping for no good reason. I'm sick of it."

He hears the laugh before he opens his eyes. He instantly sobers up, eyes flying open to see Louis shaking his head at the two of them with two drinks in his hand. One must've been for Harry, but Louis storms off with both in hand. When Harry gets home that night after finding out Louis already walked home on his own, he spends the night holding Louis tightly and whispering in his ear that he didn't mean it, that he was just drunk, and that he'll never, ever be sick of Louis. 

He spends the next two months, both Quiet Months, holding his breath in fear that he'll be the reason Louis does something stupid. 

\- - - -

He should've held his breath longer than two months, because thirteen months later, he gets a call. It's from a number he doesn't recognize, so he ignores it. They call again. He ignores it again. Work, and all. But then they call a third time and Harry can feel his stomach twist in sudden dread. 

He's silent when he answers the phone. Louis' gone and crashed his car in the tree. They say that it looks like an accident, that the police will be investigating the case. Harry knows better than that, though, knows Louis better than that. So he goes to the hospital, ignores the adoption papers sitting on the passenger seat, and holds Louis' hand as he sleeps because that's all he knows how to do. 

When Louis wakes, the first thing Harry tells him after "thank god", "I love you", and "don't do that to me ever again", is "I'm not going to have a child with you until you get better".

\- - - - 

Harry's never been good with words. It's one of the few hefty flaws in their relationship. Louis' not sensitive, not really, but if Harry words something that accidentally sounds like it's hinting at something else, Louis remembers them and holds it in a pocket close to his heart. Harry never figures out he's done something wrong until months later, and half of the time he can barely recall the situation that Louis remembers so vividly. It's tiring, apologizing for something you don't remember saying. 

He remembers saying those words, though. And he hasn't regretted them since. He doesn't think he worded anything wrong or awkwardly this time. It's just the truth. Maybe that's what it takes Louis twenty-one months to bring up again.

"I'm never going to be 'better', Haz."

Harry stays quiet, keeps looking at the television. 

"You said we can't have a kid until I'm better. I've been struggling with this since I was twelve." Louis sniffles, and for the first time, it's not a laugh. It makes Harry's heart bleed. "I want to have children with you, Harry."

But there's months in which Harry's sleeping next to a distant stranger. There are days where Louis takes everything the wrong way. Harry won't be a single parent, won't be the one telling their child that their other daddy decided he wanted to die more than he wanted to live for them. So he stays silent. It's worse than anything he could've said.

 - - - -

Harry never understands, not completely, until he's forty-six. They're still dealing with the consequences of them both taking two weeks off of work for a much-needed vacation, and he asks his mother for fifty bucks so he can grab Chloe those earrings she wanted from the store a while back. Anne complies immediately, even more generous in her older years, and Harry feels a bit less useless. 

Chloe wears the earrings to the funeral and Harry keeps telling her how beautiful she looks even though it's probably not the appropriate occasion. She's standing tall at eighteen in heels and a black dress, tears poorly hidden with cheap sunglasses they were passing out in front of the church. She's been crying since they got in the car, and Harry can't blame her. It's the first heartbreak he's ever had to coach his daughter through, but he's never dealt with a heartbreak quite like this. There's no way he can try to console her wounds, not when they're this raw, this fresh. So he just holds her hand and tells her that it's okay, that it wasn't her fault, that's there's nothing she could've done to save him. 

The entire day, he can't help but think how easily this could've been the ending to Louis' story. And it's terribly selfish, and he won't admit it to anybody else but Louis, because they are attending their daughter's first boyfriend's funeral after he killed himself. He died on purpose, left her with a lousy note that she'll keep in her sock drawer forever. Jack was just a kid, a kid both Harry and Louis absolutely adored, and yet Harry's using this horrid day to be. . . happy. Happy because his own teenage love was strong enough to keep going, because he never had to figure out where to put a note in his bedroom. And as he watches Louis whisper carefully to their two little boys who have no idea what's going on, he gets it. He just understands suddenly. And maybe-- no, definitely-- a funeral isn't a proper place to feel it, but Harry's lucky. And he understands that now. 

\- - - -


End file.
